Automaton
by centigrade
Summary: AU, ShizuNatsu. It's granted that things won't go smoothly when technical problems force Natsuki to take her masterpiece under her wing, but as their relationship gradually advances into grey areas, nothing can ever be for certain.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Mai HiME. Instead, I'm setting my sights on world domination.  
This story has absolutely no historic, geographic, technical or scientific accuracy whatsoever.

* * *

------------------**  
AUTOMATON**  
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CHAPTER ONE, reset

--

_The animated figures stand  
__Adorning every public street__  
And seem to breathe in stone, or__  
move their marble feet._  
– Pindar

--

--

--

**Please input Login ID**.

The dark-haired girl smiled and tapped a few buttons—_kuga-natsuki_.

**Login established. Requesting password.**

Now this was much harder. Stifling a bitter groan, she entered a wild guess.

- _duran_

**Password is incorrect.**

_- mayonnaise_

**Password is incorrect.**

_- who the hell let midori set up the passwords, anyway_

**Password is incorrect.**

- _i swear to god i will kill that woman_

**Password is incorrect.**

Fingers drumming against the key pad in frustration, her patience thinned as prhase after phrase was stubbornly rejected by the steely mechanical voice. Having had no need to use the room in the past few years, she had never bothered to memorise the code that granted its entry. Coupled with the fact that the Head of the Security Department, Sugiura Midori, had an atrocious taste in choosing passwords, her situation was looking bleak.

- _how about 'midori has a serious case of peter pan syndrome'?_

**Password is incorrect.**

- _figured_

**Password is incorrect.**

In a sheer stroke of aggravation, she punched the intercom button.

"Open the door already!"

There was a surprised pause before a feminine voice dryly replied.

"Password is incorrect."

"Since when did you take a class in spontaneous sarcasm?"

"Since Midori decided that chainsaws were adequate replacements for pizza cutters."

" ... Just let me in."

The door slid open smoothly, and she strode into the whitewashed room she had spent fifteen minutes trying to access. Initially, the poorly furnished area seemed to provide little reward for her wasted time; save for a forboding metal cabinet stashed in a corner, a large sink equipped with bottles of santizer, and a surgical table accompanied by important apparatuses, it was completely bare.

The only other occupant was a woman dressed in a distinctive labcoat, who beckoned the shorter girl over.

Preoccupied, the doctor did not move to face her. "Even Yuuki-san got the password right on the first try."

Natsuki scowled. "That's because both Midori and Nao got their brain implants from the same garbage dump."

The older woman did not voice any approval nor disapproval to her impolite remark—in fact, she didn't give _any_ indication that she had even heard it. "The results are in."

"And?" she demanded, eager to discuss the real reason she had came.

The brown-haired woman gently patted the object laid out on the table surface which had been draped in a suspiciously large sheet of white cloth, laid out on the table surface. Releasing a long, drawn-out sigh, she turned to look her companion straight in the eye. The blue-haired youth immediately raised her guard, thrown off by the grave expression on the usually placid doctor's face.

"It's taken too much damage to its memory core."

"Can it be restored?" Natsuki anxiously probed.

"Probably. Estimated chances of success is fairly low, about seven percent."

"You can't be serious."

"Well, it depends. If we begin on the repairs now, that's the best rate you'll get. Otherwise, it can escalate to as high as forty-two percent if given time to conduct more research."

Emerald eyes narrowed. "And exactly how much time do you propose we should require?"

"Eight months, give or take a few." The doctor shrugged indifferently.

"I can deal with that." Natsuki relented, though she was visibly displeased. "Give me a forty-two percent over a seven percent any day, Yohko. I can't afford to let three year's worth of hard work go to waste just because of petty impatience. It took me months to come up with just the blueprints, let alone collect the materials and actually build it."

"Smart," Yohko idly complimented her choice. "I suppose I'll overlook your ... prior failure."

Realising that the doctor was refering to her inability to keep up with Midori's utter hopelessness in password selection, Natsuki grimaced. "Disregarding that, could I take a look at the extent of damage?"

"It's not a pretty sight." Yohko chuckled and slowly pulled the cloth off the hidden figure.

Natsuki winced—the twisted pile of scrap metal was a far cry from her original creation, all snapped wires and bent joints with nothing vaguely resembling the well-polished mechanism it once used to be. It pained her how her masterpiece had taken a hefty plunge to join the ranks of _should be thrown into the Incinerator_, and it would have been had it not been for the price of the resources required to assemble it; nothing but the finest parts from the finest suppliers for the finest android in the world, after all.

"What happened?"

"The processor overheated and combusted."

"What? But I fitted it with the .73 circuit guards, and even modified them to withstand so high a temperature that tossing it into the centre of a volcano wouldn't affect it!"

"_Something_ interfered with the wiring and destroyed the data chip on its thermal repulsion." Yohko pointedly stared at her, and Natsuki had a bad feeling about that certain something. "Upon dettaching the chip, I found traces of a very familiar condiment slathered all over it. Does anything come to mind?"

Natsuki resisted the overwhelming urge to pound her head against edge of the surgical table. Repeatedly.

"Try to seperate unhealthy eating habits from your workbench, Kuga-san."

The younger girl groaned, clearly not in the mood for verbal jibes. Not that she ever was.

"It's not that I'm entirely unsympathetic to your plight," Yohko reassured, despite her incredibly amused expression. "I took some time off to mend its exterior shell."

"Thanks," Natsuki muttered gratefully. "How long will the Host last without the memory core?"

Yohko smiled. "Three hours. Any longer than that, and it'll start deteriorating. Most shells—or Hosts, whichever you prefer—can last a couple of years, but the one you constructed is not only highly advanced, meaning that it's impossible for our servers to maintain, but also particularly fragile. You chose its internal frame for its mechanical potential, not its stamina."

Frowning, the shorter girl wondered if her decision to use an unusual model was a mistake.

"We're going to have to activate it soon. The servers can't hold it any longer." Yohko admitted.

Natsuki paled. "And what does that entail?"

"No offense, but I believe you've never babysat before?" Yohko lifted a brow expectantly.

"_Never_," Natsuki snorted – she had joined Searrs because it meant _not_ being shafted off to domestic duties such as housekeeping and looking after stupid, whining brats. "Why?"

"Get used to it." Yohko was well-known for her straightforwardness. "Top of the line Host with exceptional sensors, state-of-the-art motor processors, circuit guards for all programming, and, best of all, an actual internal learning-drive. You've really outdone yourself this time, Kuga-san. It would have been the perfect warrior if it hadn't lost its memory core, along with all its fighting skills and built-in knowledge. It's practically a little child now."

The doctor waited for the words to sink in, grinning. "A little child whom we're going to leave in your care."

"No," Natsuki declined instantly. "No, nononono, _no_."

"Your creation, your responsibility." Yohko chuckled, aware that she had a winning argument and taking full advantage of it.

This time, it was harder for Natsuki to resist the urge to pound her head against the surgical table. Repeatedly.

"Can't we just leave it alone in the laboratory until the memory core is ready?"

"That means it'll be on its own for eight months, maybe more, without any sort of basic understanding of how the world works. A lot of time for it to develop unwarranted ideals and possibly even gain first-hand experience of how charging into laboratory walls which do not break isn't a bright idea."

Natsuki frowned at the thought of her precious creation accidentally harming itself.

"Remember Tokiha-san and the Host she built?" Yohko continued mercilessly. "Mikoto-san was definitely her best work so far, but a week left alone in the laboratory led to quite an attitude. It even rejected parts of its memory core—specifically, the parts that monitored its levels of discipline."

Natsuki definitely remembered Mikoto.

While the black-haired troublemaker was liked by most of the staff for her earnesty and enthusiasm, it was no doubt that she was, quite frankly, a Defect. Like all Defects, she should have been sacrificed to the Incinerator. However, Mai made an appeal to Kanzaki that would obviously be accepted. It must have been convenient to have the General Head regarding you as a romantic interest.

Natsuki was sure that Kanzaki would not be as kind to her if her own masterpiece succumbed to such malfunctions.

Yohko seemed to share the sentiment. "You're one of the best Artificers we've ever had, but even that won't save a Defect."

"Where's this Host anyway?"

The doctor pressed her palm to a wall. "In the room beyond."

Responding to her touch, a section of the wall whirled open to address a control panel. Yohko typed in commands with the ease of a professional, and an unassuming metal door located in a corner of the room flashed a welcoming blue before it swung open.

**Laboratory VII Back Room. Access granted: sagisawa-yohko.**

"It's in a big box. You can't miss it." Yohko hinted, pressing a few more keys.

**District I Corridor. Access granted: sagisawa-yohko.**

"Take your time. I'm going to make sure Midori isn't setting anything on fire."

Yohko shot the young Artificer an encouraging smile as she left the laboratory, the door to the corridor sliding shut behind her.

Thanking the older woman with a nod, Natsuki entered the back room. Having been recently built, it was suspiciously orderly whereas most of its kind would have been treated more like dumping grounds. Storage compartments, securely affixed to the walls, were neatly labelled and arranged.

Situated in the middle of the room was a large container, its structure reminiscent of a coffin. The dark-haired girl dismissed the morbid implications that came with its appearance and examined the box, working under the dim but sufficient white glow of the ceiling lights to remove several locks and push its lid off.

What she had just uncovered was a masterpiece.

_Her_ masterpiece.

--

--

A stroke of her fingers across the detector ordered the door to shift open.

"Yohko! Why dint'cha tell me yer comin'? Ah would'a kept some fer ya!"

Sagisawa Yohko, while admittedly prone to making a catastrophic mess every now and then, was particular about housekeeping. Books should be placed on seperate shelves according to their genres, the pillow on her bed must sit at a forty-five degree slant against the headboard, and nothing in her wardrobe should be left out of its appropriate compartment. Akin to how she treated the laboratory specifically assigned to her, she always put in her best efforts to make sure that her dormitory was in the finest state of cleanliness.

Unfortunately, not even the best efforts of Searr's highest-ranking doctor could defeat Sugiura Midori.

"Ya don't need ta luke so mad. Ah only had ..." Midori frowned in an exaggerated fashion. "Seh'enteen shots! To commemorate mah birthday, y'know?"

"Shut up, Midori. You're not seventeen, and it's not your birthday." Yohko scowled at the empty glass bottles strewn about.

Midori appeared considerably offended and countered the accusation with a glazed glare.

Ignoring the wave of nausea elicited by the overwhelmingly powerful smell of alcohol, the doctor started picking up the trash scattered across the floor and placing them into a re-sealable plastic zipper bag she fished out from her labcoat. Midori leaned against the side of her bed, observing Yohko clean up the disaster in vague interest—or rather, drunken fascination.

The red-haired woman was first to break the silence.

"At least ah don't breathe cancer in and out all day."

"No, but you piss _in_," Yohko waved a bottle which was once filled with yellow liquor, "and out all day."

"Ah'll have ya know that thass some hyeh-gred, fine-qualathee stuff right there!"

"High-grade, fine-quality _toxic_."

Midori, unable to find a suitable retort, did not answer. The pair fell into a comfortable silence, one busy with restoring the dormitory room to an acceptable condition and the other busy with watching the first. As per normal, Yohko was abruptly interrupted after a few minutes. Four, to be exact, and a new record for the impetuous alcoholic.

"I wuss gunna say that it's nice of ya to clean up after me."

Yohko glanced towards her roommate cautiously, put off by her unusual patience and show of gratitude. "I've been doing this for years."

Midori paused, mulling over her words. "Oh, thass right. Ya shud be rewarded or somethin', huh?"

"Pouring motor oil into my ears is _not_ a reward." The recount was followed by a shudder.

"Thass a lie, a dirty lie!" Midori slurred. "Anyways, ah was thinkin' of a lil' somethin' else."

"Like what?" Yohko deadpanned.

"Y'know, somethin' else ..."

Yohko stared at the normally shameless woman's blush.

"Like what?" she repeated.

"Somethin' nice."

The doctor smiled encouragingly. "Really?"

Thrust into a state of panic, Midori began mumbling. "Yes. Ah think. At least, ah'm hopin' yer'd find it nice."

Yohko was now intrigued. "What is it?"

Midori reddened further. "Ah'm not tellin' 'til ah'm ready!"

The brown-haired woman arched a delicate eyebrow questioningly, but chose not to pursue the matter. If Midori refused to blurt it out even while smashed, it must have been something extremely important. Yohko knew better than to pry into her friend's private affairs, and instead continued to remove the rubbish as Midori withdrew into a rare moment of silence.

Eventually, her trash tally came up to nine bottles of assorted alcohol, three broken chopsticks, twelve wads of discarded paper, and a return ticket from District IX. She turned to fix her intoxicated friend with a curious look.

"Since when were you in District IX?"

--

--

Activating the dormant Host had been an unpleasant task.

Natsuki would have resorted to putting a jackhammer into good use should it have been any other object, but preventing her masterpiece from potential injury was her top priority. The sleeping Host, still partially bundled up in safety wrapping, was carefully lifted out of its container and lowered onto the floor. Gingerly, she tore off a piece of the wrapping and placed it underneath its head for cushioning.

How a Host first awakened was incredibly important, for they were most vulnerable during that period of time. Having witnessed a multitude of activations before, Natsuki was well aware of that and proceeded to affirm that the Host was as comfortable as possible by using her jacket as a mattress. Hopefully, the padding would be enough.

Besides, Hosts were capable of sentient thought, though not many seemed to be fully conscious of that even if it was a confirmed fact. It was something the young Artificer picked up on as a child through taking time to closely study how Hosts interacted. Natsuki did not want to ruin her Host's first impression of her by providing it with inappropriate care.

Nevertheless, her vast knowledge on how the procedure progressed was contrasted by her lack of experience in the actual practice.

The Artificer gently took hold of the hand of her masterpiece; she had installed specifications that forbid her Host to awaken unless the activator passed a series of codes, the first coming in the form of a touch sensor in its hand.

"Begin activation."

**Requesting identification.**

"Kuga Natsuki."

**Name recognised. Verifying ---  
**

Her grip tightened slightly as her hand was scanned.

**Hand shape confirmed. Palm size confirmed. Fingerprints confirmed.  
**

**Proceed.**

The dark-haired girl moved towards her creation. Hesitant, she inched forward until her face hovered right above that of the Host.

**Visual Receptors temporarily abled.**

Its eyes shot open, dull and unseeing. Natsuki waited with baited breath.

**Optical validation confirmed.**

**Requesting keyword.**

She had been mindful when choosing her keyword. Things like _motorbikes_ or _wolves_ were far too obvious and anyone who remotely knew her could have broken into her Host if she had used those. Instead, she had rummaged around her dormitory room until she wound up with a strange little book she had to read for kingergarten class—it had something to do with a bell and a monk, if she remembered correctly.

"Kiyohime."

**Keyword confirmed.**

**Activation complete. Starting up ---  
**

What happened after was a process she would never get tired of watching.

**Visual receptors abled.**

**Olfactory receptors abled.**

**Auditory receptors abled.**

**Gustatory receptors abled.**

**Somatosensory receptors abled.  
**

The Host's eyes lit up with a stunning ferocity that faded away just as quickly as it had appeared, reduced to blinking haphazardly. Disorientated, it pulled itself into a sitting position and held a hand to its forehead as though it had just suffered the equivalent of taking a brutal blow to the skull and recovering from a coma produced by the aftershock—which, frankly, it did.

Natsuki supressed a startled choke when its piercing gaze fell upon her. Strangely enough, the Host seemed as if it had noticed her for the first time. It surveyed her with an odd glint in its eyes—curiosity?

"Natsuki," the Artificer pointed to herself. "That's my name."

The Host blinked in what she would have liked to think was understanding. It stared at her for a moment, contemplative, before mouthing something.

She was tempted to try and smack the stupidity out of its head, but reigned in the impulse. "I can't hear you."

Somehow sensing that she was displeased, it concentrated and took in a deep breath of air. The young Artificer was prepared to hear neverending verses of ancient poetry flow out of its mouth in huge torrents, judging by how determined the newly activated Host looked.

"Ara," it said.

If the laws of physics weren't an issue, she would have exploded on the spot.

But then it smiled—a kind, impossibly trusting smile—and Natsuki was very grateful for physics, because she wasn't sure if she could handle exploding a second time.

A pregnant pause ensued. The Host, already in the early stages of developing what was known as _consideration for others_, waited patiently.

"Okay," the dark-haired girl finally began. "Here's the deal. I'm an Artificer. You're a Host I created. All clear so far?"

"Artificer?" her student echoed. "Host?"

"An Artificer is someone who invents, builds, repairs ... and, uh, basically, they do everything as long as it's related to mechanics. A Host is a really, really smart android."

"What's an android?"

"A robot that looks like a human. We Fuuka Artificers specialise in them."

"What's a Fuuka?"

"You don't say 'What's _a_ Fuuka'."

"So there's lots of Fuukas?"

"No! There's only one Fuuka in the whole wide world."

"Okay. What's the Fuuka?"

"No, Fuuka's a place. There's no 'a' or 'the' when you talk about places."

"Oh, I understand."

Natsuki wasn't quite sure it did, but she didn't have the energy to pursue the matter.

"Are all Hosts born like this?"

Her eyebrows rose. _Born?_ "No, you're special. Your memory core blew up, so I had to activate you without it."

The Host stared at her. "Okay."

If it was possible, her eyebrows would rise further. "You're really accepting about this."

"If I needed to know more, you would tell me."

Natsuki was surprised. "How do you know for sure?"

The Host looked at her in confusion. "Natsuki is an Artificer, and I am her Host. I trust Natsuki."

"Don't—" Natsuki stopped. _Don't say that,_ the reply was caught in her throat, twisting and churning like a chained monster. _You will regret it.  
_

Natsuki swallowed. It did not help. _You will regret it, again._

Standing up, the Host turned towards her and tilted its head expectantly. Bright light illuminated its face, giving its skin a pale, unhealthy sheen. The ceiling spun, and shadows overlapped one another in an everlasting parade of flickering mayhem. The Artificer was exposed, _fully exposed_, and the scenary pressed themselves into the background traitorously, leaving her with nowhere to hide.

So she ran.

"Don't be weak," she finished, and inwardly, she laughed at the irony.

The Host smiled and nodded, unassuming.

Natsuki reluctantly averted her eyes. _You never learn._

"We need to get you some clothes."

--

--

Midori rolled onto her bed, burying her face into a pillow.

"Stop moving around. You'll feel sick."

"Don't be such a stick in the ass, Yohko."

At least her capability of accurate pronounciation had returned; a sign that the booze in her bloodstream was finally wearing thin. The absence of courtesy, however, had not vanished with the last traces of alcohol. Midori was cursed with the strong tendency to speak her mind, and it was just too bad that her mind was crowded with uncouth things. Her friends were not spared of her relentless nuisances, Yohko in particular. There was something about the austere doctor that made her a flashing beacon for Midori's taunts.

Yohko gave Midori a stern look. The red-haired woman was currently tangled in her messied bedsheets, her legs splayed out in an awkward position that would undoubtedly result in a cramp a few hours later. This was a problem, because Midori would certainly whine nonstop about the cramp afterwards.

"I believe the correct term is 'a stick in the mud'."

She got up and walked to Midori's bed, grabbing hold of her legs with every intention to shift them into a more muscle-friendly stance.

Midori stiffened so adruptly that it was hard to believe that she hadn't just been electricuted.

"Midori?"

"Sorry, I was ... uh, thinking about something."

"You, thinking?"

"Yeah."

This was unusual.

"What about?"

"About whether Kuga can exit the laboratory without knowing the password."

--

--

**Login established. Requesting password.**

_- oh no  
_

**Password is incorrect.**

_- dkasjdashg_

**Password is incorrect.**

- _aaaargh!!_

**Password is incorrect.**

This was bad. They couldn't get out and they couldn't leave and they _probably_ couldn't ram down the walls so they were going to wait and they were going to wait a really long time and they were going to be stuck here all day long and—

**District I Corridor. Access granted: kuga-natsuki.  
**

The Host glanced at her, its fingers grazing the keypad.

"Is this what you wanted?"

"But ... how?" Natsuki was stupified.

"Ara, weren't you paying attention?"

"Paying attention to what?"

"The nice machine told you lots of times already."

"Told me _what_?"

The Host looked at her in a incredulous way that made her feel like an idiot.

"The password is 'incorrect'."

Natsuki wasn't sure which was the wiser course of action: introducing her face to the floor, or kicking Midori's drunken ass all the way to Garderobe.

* * *

**A/N: **No promises on how this will take off, but as far as I'm concerned, it's supposed to be something of a adventure-angst-drama-lame!jokes-humour chimera. Make of it what you will, and hopefully it turns out to be enjoyable. On an irrelevant note, chapter lengths shouldn't fluctuate greatly because I have an obsession with evenness. I apologise for any grammatical and spelling errors.


End file.
